


Début

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 14:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15974501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: An unhappy Combeferre, newly enrolled in the École Polytechnique, confronts his beliefs, gets into trouble, and meets a friend.





	Début

**Author's Note:**

> Credit goes to AMarguerite for cementing the idea of Combeferre being a former (and deeply unhappy) student of the École Polytechnique in my brain. Credit should also probably go to my fiancé Zac for getting me to write this story in the first place!

October 1825

Despite the clear and foolish risk he was taking—being amongst such a crowd in so public a place, wearing the black and red uniform which marked him out as a student of the Polytechnique—Combeferre could not bring himself to care overmuch. The day was unseasonably hot, and his uniform pressed uncomfortably tight across the stomach; unhappiness, in his case at least, seemed to manifest in the consumption of too many sweets.

Unhappiness. He was ashamed to even voice the word to himself, but still the feeling remained no matter how selfish he thought himself for it.

At first, he had tried to explain away his feelings as homesickness brought on by being on his own for the first time, but he knew the problem lay in something deeper and more difficult to fix. It was the dawning realization that he had made a very grave mistake and could not think of how to right it again. Regardless of how fascinating the scientific portions of his classes were, no matter how much interest he and his fellow students held for the higher cause of Equality, they were still going to have to fight, to kill, in the name of corruption and oppression.

He had thought about appealing to his parents to allow him to switch his field of study, but his father was already angry with him for not wanting to join him in the family’s paper-making business back in Annonay, at having to scrape together the funds to send Combeferre to Paris at his mother’s insistence. Perhaps his mother would support him, but Combeferre could not seem to put together the right words to send her a letter.

It was a Wednesday, the Polytechniciens’ day out, but rather than joining the others at cafés or dance halls, Combeferre had elected instead to restlessly wander until early evening. It was almost sunset when he happened upon a little group gathered against the buildings on one side of the Place Saint-Michel. At the center was a speaker, and Combeferre had stopped to listen despite the risk, standing on tiptoe to peer over the shoulder of a man in a dark coat in front of him. The speaker, a printer whose shop had recently been forced to close—in the current political climate, Combeferre did not need to wonder why—was incensed, his family in danger of being turned out of their lodgings for lack of coin. Republican sympathies were a risky business no matter the medium; starvation was the price one might pay for holding convictions. Forgetting his own troubles for the moment, Combeferre tugged down the point of his bicorn hat and drank in every word.

Even as a strange sense of unease settled into his gut as he listened to the printer speak, something else, a newfound resolve, shone bright and sharp in his mind. In the past, Combeferre might have opined that sitting and hoping for the world to change around him was wise but really, in the face of all he saw in the present, he was wrong, wasn’t he?

He did not have time to dwell on this revelation. Out of the corner of his eye, Combeferre saw someone approaching fast—a gendarme, who shouted at the printer, _“You there!”_

The crowd, though focused intently on the printer’s words, was acutely aware that their public gathering was all too conspicuous and was ready to run at a moment’s notice. They scattered, and though Combeferre was caught off-guard, his position toward the back of the group proved to be an advantage. Within the span of a second, he ducked down the nearest street north and then turned off it just as quickly onto the Rue Vaugirard.

Unfortunately, this street took him west, in the opposite direct he needed to return to the École Polytechnique, but it was no matter. He would just have to make a circuit back; he still had time before his curfew.

Slightly out of breath, he passed the Odéon and turned north one street farther than he perhaps should have, with a mind to shorten his journey back while also keeping a safe distance from the trouble he had just left behind. All at once, he became aware of the creeping, unsettling feeling of sensing someone behind him. Suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings, he heard footsteps, so soft they were barely audible.

Trying to do so as surreptitiously as possible, Combeferre turned his head to get a brief look. Sure enough, there was a man walking some distance behind himself.

A thrill of anxiety shot through him, but he took a deep breath. He did not get a look at the man’s face, but he had noticed his black coat—the same coat of the man in front of him on the Place Saint-Michel—along with dark trousers and hat. The ensemble was not at all fashionable but neat, orderly, and _forgettable_. It was precisely the sort of ensemble a gendarme might wear to remain inconspicuous. Indeed, if the man had not been standing directly in front of him, Combeferre would likely not have remembered him at all.

Still, this was not definite proof he was in any danger, Combeferre reasoned. If this was a gendarme, why had he taken to following Combeferre instead of grabbing him on the spot? The police needed no evidence at all to make an arrest. And then, this street was not so untraveled that simply walking along it would arouse any suspicion; if he had chosen a darker, smaller, more secretive street, it would have been a different story. 

On the other hand, Combeferre thought with dismay, his uniform made him an easy mark, and this coupled with the late hour would make it only too easy for anyone to predict where he was headed. It was also a bad sign that they were the only two people who had chosen to leave the Place Saint-Michel in this direction. Combeferre had to wonder what his father would say if he ended up in prison.

Heart pounding, he tried to come up with a plan. He was presently walking briskly up the Rue de Seine, a long street which would take him all the way to the river, at which point he could turn east onto the wide quai and make a run for it. In the meantime, he might be able to lose his apparent pursuer amongst the people returning home from work or their evening shopping.

He sped his pace, trying to distance himself from the man while still trying to avoid seeming suspicious, glancing back every so often. Always, the man was behind him, infuriatingly effortless in his pursuit. Combeferre grimaced to himself, cursing his lack of forethought when he had stopped to listen to the printer’s speech. He wondered if he wasn’t choosing the wrong method to avoid this man; perhaps narrower streets, a more winding path, would be better suited to his purpose.

He saw the Rue des Marais up ahead; it was a very old, very narrow street with building pressing close and crooked on either side. Though this would once again lead in the opposite direction from the Polytechnique, and he was coming close to missing his curfew, Combeferre turned abruptly onto it.  Immediately, his new plan was cut short.

A large cart was overturned at the other end of the short street, crates of spilled fruit and vegetables blocked his way entirely. Behind him, he could hear the man’s footsteps growing closer.

Angry and frustrated, cornered in what seemed like every aspect, Combeferre whirled around and cried, _“Why are you following me?”_

The man, just a few paces away now, halted, brows raised slightly in surprise at being so roughly addressed. 

“I live here,” he said simply, pointing to his right at the building marked No. 12.

Combeferre stared at him, taken aback by this reply. Now that they were face to face, it dawned on him that had he seen this man from the front, the last word he would have used to describe him was _forgettable_. Light blond hair fell in waves from under the man’s black hat, barely brushing his shirt collar and framing a face with fine classical features, which seemed austere, almost as if it were unaccustomed to extremes in expression. His eyes were bright and blue, steady without being cold.

Combeferre was stunned for a moment, but fought it off in the face of his present troubles. Could this man really be a gendarme? He looked fresh out of lycée, but carried himself with such even sureness that he might have been years older. And if he was a gendarme, wouldn’t Combeferre already be arrested?

As Combeferre struggled to find an appropriate answer, the man looked back at him, nonplussed.

“But,” Combeferre said finally, feeling the heat rise in his face. “But I saw you on the Place Saint-Michel, and when I ran, you were behind me the whole way.”

“It was the fastest route to my lodgings.”

“Oh.”

He had made a terrible blunder. It was true that he had been on edge for weeks now, but how could he have let it cloud his judgement so terribly? For the first time since the start of term, he wanted nothing more than to be back in his dormitory and away from the rest of the world. He meant to turn away, to apologize and then make his way back to the Polytechnique as quickly as he could, but the man interjected before he could so much as open his mouth.

“You were at the Place Saint-Michel.” The man was watching Combeferre carefully. “Were you listening to the printer speak?

“Yes,” replied Combeferre, hunching his shoulders slightly. “It- Today has been eye-opening.” He felt miserable, but something about the man before him compelled him to continue, albeit in a lower tone of voice. “It seems, sometimes, that there is little that makes sense in the world. Oh, the sciences, yes, those follow methodology and logic, but- Society and politics now are-“ Combeferre frowned as he searched for the right phrasing. “Perhaps the changes that the printer seeks are the only things that make sense.”

He wondered if, perhaps, it was imprudent to speak so freely. The other man did not seem surprised or alarmed by his words, however. Indeed, he was still regarding Combeferre, though not unkindly. It was an almost appraising gaze.

At last he said, his voice quiet, “Yes, I feel the same. I am still new to Paris, but it is apparent to me that work needs to be done by those who hold certain opinions.” The man paused, as though briefly lost in reverie, and then he continued, “I have spent a good portion of my youth reading doctrine that would seek to serve the Republic, but it would better serve France to take action.”

At that word  _Republic_ , spoken so frankly, some of that bright resolve Combeferre had felt earlier glowed within him again. He leaned toward the man eagerly. “I quite agree. I thought differently, once—that letting society take a natural course towards egalitarianism was the best way, but now- now I see something more must be done. The People could be served through- through some means. An educational society, perhaps.”

“Education?” A crease appeared on the other man’s smooth brow, but even so, he somehow still did not look displeased. “Education for all citizens is a small step in the right direction. Like waiting for society to progress on its own, it would take time. Progress has no time to waste. In the present day, to effect real change would mean taking more direct action.”

“Direct action?” All Combeferre could think of then was his ultimate fate after the Polytechnique was finished with him. He replied more brusquely than he meant to, “Oh yes, I suppose _violence_ has its effects on government. But is this truly how liberty should be achieved? How can one purport to abhor the suffering in present society and then make use of death to eliminate it? Progress through education is slow, I grant you, but lasting. To effect change, real and _positive_ change, one must not have blood on one’s hands. One must be innocent.”

Combeferre expected the other man to argue back, perhaps even to become annoyed or angry with such pointed disagreement, but on the contrary, his eyes shone. If he had had a less stoic countenance, Combeferre would have said that he looked delighted. He did not continue the debate, however, and instead held out a hand.

“I am Michel Enjolras.”

His given name was Michel, thought Combeferre to himself as he reached out to shake Enjolras’ hand. _Of course it was._

“I am a student at the law school.” The corner of Enjolras’ mouth twitched. “Insofar as one can be.”

Combeferre almost laughed; it was a well-known fact that law students were primarily students of Paris instead, in one way or another, and used their enrollment at the Sorbonne as simply an excuse to be in the city. “Augustin-Étienne Combeferre. I’m enrolled at the Polytechnique.” He indicated his uniform almost sheepishly. “Obviously.”

“Would you like to come up to my place?” Enjolras tilted his head at No. 12 again. “We might continue our discussion. It seems we have in common something important.” Though small, the smile Enjolras gave then was radiant. “And other things on which we very much disagree.”

Combeferre had been drawn so swiftly into conversation with Enjolras that he had quite forgotten everything else. He would surely miss his curfew now, be locked out and barred from returning to the school that evening, perhaps even find himself facing disciplinary measures, but Combeferre could not care about any of it. For the first time in weeks, the dark cloud over him had lifted, and he smiled. 

“Yes. I would be very happy to.”


End file.
